


A Night at Hyde Place

by linoresearch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1845, After Blackthorn Hall, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gothic, Light Bondage, M/M, Porn With Plot, Romance, Victorian, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linoresearch/pseuds/linoresearch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a set a few months after the events of 'The Ghosts of Blackthorn Hall.' Dean has difficulty adjusting to his new life with Castiel, and London is perhaps not as much fun as he thought it might be. But then again he's always been good at making his own fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night at Hyde Place

**Author's Note:**

> I have switched to Dean's POV for this short story, because I think he had a bit of a rough time and is deserving of some attention, consequently the language is slightly more modern and informal than in Ghosts of Blackthorn. 
> 
> Oh and there is a Jane Eyre reference in there as well, something I wanted to put in GoBH, but it didn't fit, so it's found a home here instead :D
> 
> I actually set out just to write some porn, but apparently I am incapable of doing that, so you could look at this as a one shot for now, but it can equally be seen as a bridging piece between Ghosts and the next (as yet untitled) part of the story, whenever that arrives - I'm only in the planning stage right now so it will not be any time soon unfortunately. Thank you for reading :)

**London – No. 5 Hyde Place**

**Thursday 24 th April 1845**

“Thank god that’s over.” Dean said. He stepped up and into the house, glad to be leaving behind the night damp air of the street. “I don’t understand why we have to dress up like we’re about to meet the Queen, just to listen to a lot of caterwauling.”

He pulled a face and pushed two fingers inside the starched stiff collar that rubbed unpleasantly against his neck. His neck-tie had had been half throttling him all night, and he pulled at it in an attempt to find some slack and ease the strangling pressure. It didn’t work. All it did was make him more irritated.

 “I take it you didn’t enjoy the opera then?” Castiel asked as he followed Dean into the house.

His voice was a low burr, difficult to hear against the clatter of the Hackney carriage as it rolled away over the cobblestones. Dean glanced into the street and watched it vanish into the white fingered clutches of the London mist. The heaviest fogs of winter were gone, but every night the mists came rolling in to shroud the city behind washes of white, until only the smudged orange glow of the gas lamps in the distance, stood as testimony to the existence of life beyond the veil.

“That would be something of an understatement,” Dean replied.

Castiel locked the door and Dean immediately felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He had no affinity for London. It presented a fine face but there was no heart behind it; and with ten shoeless beggars on the corner of each street, it seemed like nothing more than a wretch dressed up in the robes of Kings. But Castiel loved it. Castiel found endless fascination among the crowded streets, the culture, the politics, and the spectacle of it all, so for his sake Dean tolerated it.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Castiel chastised, divesting himself of his coat as he moved closer.

 “Please don’t tell me you actually liked all that screeching?” Dean said. “You know I’d do a lot of things for you Cas, but I’m not sure I can take another night of that.”

“Well I did prefer the Mozart we saw last week,” Castiel said.

He wore a contemplative expression as he helped Dean take off his heavy woollen coat, it had grown tight, and Dean’s face heated up at the evidence of his idleness. He needed a hunt, and soon, to blow the cobwebs away. Needed something more than dinner and the theatre, or another painful afternoon tea, spent dodging questions about why he couldn’t find himself a wife.

“Please don’t take anymore recommendations from Mrs Crabtree. For my sake Cas, I’m not sure I can take many more people dying of love, or throwing themselves dramatically into the sea.” Dean folded his coat over his arm and looked at it with more than a little disdain. “She hasn’t even been in London recently, has she? Where the hell did she even hear about... about...?”

“The Flying Dutchman,” Castiel supplied.

“Is that what it was called? God, I thought it was in German.” Dean shook his head and chose to ignore the little huff of a laugh from Castiel. “Anyway where does she get her information from? It wasn’t another friend of a friend’s husband’s aunt was it?” 

“It’s been reviewed in all the newspapers, and Yorkshire isn’t so far away that they can’t get hold of a copy of The Times. And I don’t think we can entirely blame Mrs Crabtree for your lack of enthusiasm for the theatre Dean. It wasn’t so bad,” Castiel leaned in close and tipped his head so that the next words were dropped straight into Dean’s ear, in hot little bursts, “it did have its moments.”

Dean shivered, in all the best ways, as the words fell onto his skin. He hooked an arm around Castiel’s waist and hauled him in close.

“God, you are the worst tease sometimes Cas,” he said, running his fingers down the side of Castiel’s face.

He swiped the pad of his thumb across wide soft lips, lips Dean had spent the last four hours fantasising about, while Castiel translated each warbled word into a murmur of English, every syllable swollen with intent, each one a separate seduction.

Castiel smiled beneath the press of Dean’s thumb. “I learned it all from you Dean, so you really only have yourself to blame.”

Dean grinned as their mouths met. The contact, as always, was like a spark in a tinderbox, catching quickly, burning bright, and dangerous if left untended.

“I guess we’re alone then?” Dean said when they broke apart a little later.

The house was dark and there was no sight or sound of Becky, or the new girl Castiel had taken on to help her. Dean could never remember her name. He would have felt bad about it if they were still at Blackthorn, but it didn’t seem to matter so much here, since Dean did not pay her wages.

“More or less,” Castiel replied, “I told Becky and Maggie to leave us to ourselves for the night, and not to bother with fires in the morning, unless we ring for them.” Castiel’s fingers curled possessively over Dean’s hip. “They’ll be in their rooms downstairs,” Castiel murmured as he kissed the hinge of Dean’s jaw. He took a moment to scrap his teeth over the bone then flicked his tongue out across the same spot. “They’ll be asleep by now. They’ve probably been asleep for hours already.”

“And Ben and Ellen are staying at Sam’s tonight,” Dean said. “But then I guess you already knew that, didn’t you?” Castiel answered with a studiedly nonchalant shrug and pushed past Dean.

Castiel moved towards the narrow staircase that twisted up in steep turns to the higher storeys of the house, in typical Georgian fashion. Dean slipped a hand up under the back of Castiel’s waistcoat as he followed him up the steps. The linen of Castiel’s shirt was damp against Dean’s palm, where it rested at the base of his spine – proof, if Dean needed it, that Castiel was not as unaffected by the events of the evening as he had pretended to be.

Castiel turned at the top step and for a moment he was framed, thrown into silhouette, against the smooth classical lines of a window that looked out over the street. It made Dean feel uneasy though he could not say why.

“Let’s go to my room,” Dean said.

Castiel’s dark head bobbed once in a curt acknowledgement. “I’d like that.”

“Really?” Dean said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

“Yes of course I would,” Castiel replied. He cast a puzzled look back over his shoulder, one that Dean failed to interpret.

Castiel’s rooms were luxurious, as befitted the head of the house, and they had made good use of them when they had first arrived in town. They were elegantly appointed, with large windows and high ceilings that filled the rooms with sunlight, when the weather was fine. They suited Castiel well, as the house suited Castiel, and Dean loved to see him in that bright pristine space.

But they didn’t suit Dean, as London didn’t suit him, and he had shunned the elegant rooms at the front of the house for a small room at the back. A dingy room, with only one window and the walls papered an old fashioned red. It was a lot like Castiel’s old bedchamber at Blackthorn, which even Dean could admit, was probably why he liked it so much. He had chosen to furnish it similarly too, with a tall four-posted bed that dominated the room, and just the most essential items of furniture set beside it, all finished in dark wood. Ellen had laughed at him for half an hour, for being so obvious.

The latch on Dean’s door found home with a loud click, as he pushed it closed with the heel of his shoe. He manoeuvred Castiel deeper into the darkness with his hands on either side of Castiel’s waist, his thumbs moving back and forth in agitated little swipes that made Castiel’s shirt wrinkle, concertina up, and pull loose from where it had been carefully tucked into his trousers.

Dean could barely see him it was so dark, but just the feeling of having Castiel under his hands again, the knowledge that they were only a few layers of fabric away from skin on skin, set his nerves alight with anticipation, and his pulse quickened as he urged Castiel on the familiar path towards his bed.

Their breath sounded too loud in the quiet, and Dean drew his bottom lip into his mouth with a wet sucking noise, to try and stop it. Castiel’s breath hitched in response, he stumbled to a stop and twisted around, trapped between Dean’s hands. It was a clumsy move that made Castiel’s clothes ride up and twine around him, tangling like creeping vines.   

“I might need some help,” Castiel said as he struggled to get free of his impromptu restraints.

Instead of helping Dean just laughed and held Castiel still, his predicament causing the spark of an idea to burst to life in Dean’s head.

A slice of silver moonlight slanted in from a gap between the curtains, and fell across Castiel’s face to highlight one glittering eye, blue leeched to stormy grey in the thin light. There was an almost imperceptible upturn at the corners of Castiel’s mouth; it was a tricky and elusive slip of a smile that existed only for Dean, in the moments they shared when the rest of the world went away. Dean’s heart pulsed; it was a sharp, almost painful sensation that filled up the space behind his ribs. He tightened his arms and, between one hard beat and the next, any remaining space between them vanished. Their mouths were hot and eager, almost desperate, as they tussled and tried to steal the air from one another’s lungs.

It was a relief to be alone together, to finally have the freedom to do whatever they wanted. Sometimes it felt like they spent most of their time waiting to steal a few meagre hours together here and there, it was never enough. London was not Blackthorn, and although they had friends close there were strangers closer still. A constant stream of visitors; delivery men, messengers, maids and chimney sweeps, meant that at every turn there were eyes to spy and mouths to drop secrets. The demands of London society set them spinning in endless orbits around each other, drawing close and taking comfort in proximity, but always longing for collision. Necessity separated them, and caution widened the distance, and it drove Dean to distraction that they could not be easy together, even within the walls of Castiel’s home.

But at last, at last, here they were. Here was a chance to forget the city outside the window; ignore the distant voices that shouted in joy or despair, the rats that scurried to and fro in the gutters, and the lie of the gas lamps with their false promises of dawn, that helped no one but the night time predators. Dean couldn’t shut out that world forever, but he could make damn sure Castiel would forget about it for one night.

In the familiar darkness of his room, Dean wanted to make believe they could go back, back to before Castiel had been charmed by the shiny facade of London, back to before he had heard the half remembered fairytales of angels and grace, back to where Dean felt sure of the world around him and his place within it. Just for one night Dean wanted to make believe he was back at Blackthorn Hall and master once more.

Dean used his height and weight advantage to force Castiel backwards, and up against the bedpost, where he landed with a thud. He puffed a surprised exhale of breath and Dean leaned in quickly to catch it with his mouth.  A soft needy noise came from the back of Castiel’s throat and Dean followed the sound with his tongue, tasting warm wine and honey, as he chased it back towards the source. He wanted to hear it again, so he pushed Castiel harder against the wooden frame and slipped his leg in between Castiel’s thighs, pressing up. A louder breathy sound vibrated across from Castiel’s mouth and into Dean’s, and it sent fire curling in a slow tumbling spiral down through Dean’s stomach.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.” Dean said, his voice drawn low and thick.

Castiel nodded and looked down, frowning as though he was surprised to see he was still dressed. “Yes,” he mumbled in reply. “Yes.”

His hands looked a little unsteady as he fumbled at the buttons on his shirt, the little circles of polished bone flashed with reflected moonlight, as they escaped his fingers.

It was so easy to forget how new this still was for Castiel, he moved through life with such determination and confidence. It was rare to see him flustered, and Dean could not help but feel smug in the knowledge that he was the one to cause it. A self-satisfied smile twisted up the corners of Dean’s mouth as he stepped away to give Castiel a moment to himself.

“It’s too dark,” Dean said by way of explanation for his sudden retreat, pleased that he had managed to sound a lot more casual than he felt.

He busied his own hands lighting a lamp that sat atop his chest of drawers. Striking a flame and holding it to the oil saturated wick until it caught in a little burst, then leapt up into a tall column of flickering yellow.

“Dean?” Castiel sounded unnerved. Dean could almost feel the weight of the puzzled gaze on his back. It made his skin prickle with heat. Clearly Castiel was not the only one wearing too many clothes.

“Keep going,” Dean said, careful to keep his voice steady.

He adjusted the lamp until the flame was stable and replaced the glass cover. It cast a diffuse light across the room, and Dean could not help wondering what Castiel would look like through that veil of pale yellow. Dean turned around then smiled at what he found. A small serious frown furrowed the skin between Castiel’s eyes as he concentrated on the work of undressing – just as Dean had asked. He went about it solemnly and methodically, and it was as sexy as hell, as inch after pale inch was exposed and displayed. Dean’s fingers itched to make contact.

The unravelled remains of the red neck-cloth Castiel had worn to the theatre hung loose around his throat and trailed down in soft folds over the bare contours of his chest. Dean slid back into Castiel’s space to trap him between his own clothed body and the bed post. He leaned in as if to place a kiss on his wide lips, which parted expectantly, but instead Dean feinted to the side and plucked the scarlet linen from Castiel’s shoulders. He smiled at Castiel’s grumble of disappointment when all that met his upturned mouth was air and the lingering ghost of Dean’s breath.

Something thick and heavy seemed to catch in Dean’s throat as he looked at Castiel. The flush of increased blood flow was painted over Castiel’s skin, from cheek to throat, and then down over his chest, visible in the half light, and Dean traced the outer edge of it with his fingertips.

“Oh god,” Dean whispered.

Castiel really was beautiful, to Dean anyway. He had though as much from the very first moment when Castiel had appeared out of nowhere, like a sprite in the middle of the road, all ruffled hair, blue eyes, and red wind stung cheeks. Castiel had quite literally knocked Dean off his feet, or to be more precise, off his horse, and sometimes Dean wondered if he was still trying to get back up.

“Do you trust me, Cas?” Dean asked once he found his voice.

There was no hesitation. “Of course,” Castiel replied, his tone more serious than the situation perhaps demanded.

Dean let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. His fingers played with the cloth bundled in his hands then lifted it to his face and inhaled. Tobacco smoke and wine were the dominant scents, but underneath there remained a trace of soap and warm spices, the fragrance of Castiel’s skin.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Castiel asked as he looked at Dean in that half-innocent half-wicked way of his.

He leaned back to rest against the bed post and tilted his head in invitation. Dean took the two steps between them in a rush. He shoved his fingers into Castiel’s dark hair and pulled. It was a rough hasty action, born of the want that simmered just under Dean’s skin, but Castiel didn’t resist as Dean leaned in to bite at his bottom lip, intent on stealing all the words from his mouth, before Castiel could protest or distract Dean from his plan.

“Not yet,” Dean said.

He tugged once more on the hair gathered in his fists and a sharp intake of breath whistled past Castiel’s teeth. The answering throb from between Dean’s legs was sign enough that it was time to move things along. He closed his lips over Castiel’s, sealing their mouths together and distracting him with an artful stab and swirl of his tongue. His hands brushed down Castiel’s naked form, sweeping from shoulder to arm to hand, in quick succession, raising goosebumps over Castiel’s skin in the tracks of his touch. His fingers circled Castiel’s wrists, he tightened his grip and then pulled, lifting their arms together, up and over their heads, in one determined action.

There was a flash of stormy blue as Castiel opened his eyes. Then a moment of resistance as Castiel tensed in surprise. It took just a fraction of a second, no more than the span of a single heartbeat, until Castiel relaxed. He was pliant under Dean’s hands, his gaze was dark and heavy and fixed on Dean’s lips, as Dean broke off the kiss and pulled back to continue with his work. Castiel’s dark head swayed forward chasing Dean’s mouth, his expression dazed and desperate, like an opium eater held in thrall to its poisonous kiss.

The red cloth was a vivid slash of colour against the dark wood of the bed, and the vulnerable flesh of Castiel’s wrists, as Dean wrapped the cloth tight around both. His awareness of Castiel’s naked skin as he pressed against him was heightened to a distracting degree, and Dean’s skin tingled and burned hot beneath his clothes, prickling like the points of a hundred hot needles over his chest and down his back. The soft slide of the fabric between Dean’s fingers as he wrapped it over and under Castiel's wrists sent a warm shiver coursing down his spine. Dean tugged at the knot to make sure it was secure then stepped back to look at what he had done. It was good.

"Dean?"

"Is it too tight?" Dean asked.

“No, that wasn’t my concern,” Castiel replied as his head fell back against the bed frame, his look was loaded, his eyelids drooping low over dark eyes, and the spit on his lips shining in the low light. His hands were relaxed within his bonds, fingertips curled slightly, trusting. “I don’t want to break the bed,” Castiel said.

A smile pulled at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. He looked stunningly debauched.

“Jesus Cas,” Dean laughed, as his desire flared white hot. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, needing to draw a calming breath. “If we break the bed I’ll buy you a new one. Fuck, I’d buy you ten new beds just to see you looking like this.”

Castiel had been forced up onto the balls of his feet as he stretched up towards the bindings at his wrists. He was a broad column of pale skin that stood out, stark, against the glossy wood and shadows of his backdrop. His muscles were taut throughout the length of his body, so that each angle was sharpened, and every curve exaggerated. The cage of Castiel’s ribs was pushed out and pulled up, the dips and ridges made prominent under skin pulled thin. Below that his stomach was stretched flat, almost concave, in a slow dip that Dean followed down to a dusting of dark hairs, and more beyond.

Dean swallowed with and audible click, it had grown too hot, and he hastily began to remove his clothes. There was a glint of pearly white from Castiel’s teeth as he sank them into his bottom lip. He looked on with his face flushed, his interest in Dean’s actions making itself known below his waist. Dean filed that away for use at a later date, he was not putting on a show, his strip was perfunctory at best, a means to an end. His waistcoat and shirt were dropped to the floor and kicked aside quickly. He eased open the front of his dark trousers, relieving some of the pressure that had been building there, but didn’t take them off. Castiel’s expectant gazed turned disappointed, but Dean had no intention of leaving him so for long.

Dean swallowed down Castiel’s sigh at the solid slide of skin on skin as he pressed their chests together. He could almost hear Castiel’s relief, the _at last, at last, at last,_ at the contact, a hallelujah sung in the beating of hearts and a quickened fall breath. Dean snaked a hand in behind Castiel’s head as he pressed his mouth to his throat. He dragged fingers down Castiel’s sides, scratching blunt nails over pristine skin, leaving little red trails in the path down to Castiel’s hips. Dean smiled at the lines, the visible marks of his claim written across Castiel’s body.

Castiel arched his back and pushed his hips forward in search of Dean’s body. There was need glowing in the depths of Castiel’s eyes, they were bright with undisguised lust, but there was something else beneath it, something open and honest and trusting, and so dangerous that Dean suddenly felt dizzy. The room seemed to pitch and roll, like the world was slipping away beneath his feet. 

“Close your eyes,” Dean whispered.

He steadied himself with one hand curled over Castiel’s hip. The other hand Dean drew down over Castiel’s face, gently urging his eyes closed with the drag of fingertips. The sweep of dark eyelashes tickled as Castiel obeyed without reserve. His eyelids sliding closed to shut away the violent blue that Dean suddenly found as terrifying as a storm tossed sea.

Dean moved his hand down over Castiel’s cheek, which was a little rough from the day’s growth of stubble, until he reached the base of Castiel’s neck. He brushed his thumb over the small dip there for a few seconds. He could feel the rapid flutter of Castiel’s pulse. He moved back up and spread his fingers out to circle Castiel’s throat and squeezed, only a little but enough to restrict the flow of air to Castiel’s lungs.

Dean had no idea why he was did it. What it was supposed to prove or achieve. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt but it must have been uncomfortable, yet Castiel seemed happy to let him do it. He kept his eyes shut and his expression placid. The only move Castiel made was to open his mouth a little more, as the pull of his breath became audible, it rattled like an echo, or like the rush of the ocean at a distance. Castiel trusted him completely and Dean would never understand why, all he could do was be thankful for it, and show his gratitude the best way he knew.

Dean kissed his way down Castiel’s body. His tongue sweeping out to taste warm skin as he went, leaving a shiny trail in his wake, one Dean could use to track back to Castiel’s mouth if he became lost. The way Castiel responded to Dean’s touch was stunning. His flesh twitched and shivered, and the blood that rushed up to flood just under the surface of his skin darkened the dusky blush even further. It was addictive, and each time Dean tried to move away, even a fraction, he was dragged back in to that spice scented skin.

He fell to his knees letting his lips drag down across the jut of Castiel’s hipbone as he followed the curve of them down to the patch of dark hair and the thick swell of Castiel’s erection. Fully hard and dark at the head, it slipped against Dean’s neck as he moved, rubbing across stubble, and spreading a sticky line along Dean’s jaw.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Dean looked up over the planes of the creature bound above him. Castiel was glorious. He rose up, lean and lithe, like a figurehead, perfectly carved and painted in shades of pale gold. Dean’s heart squeezed. It was almost painful, and it traitorously tried climb up into Dean’s throat and push words Dean wasn’t ready to say past his lips. Instead he kept them shut and put his mouth to better use.

He swallowed Castiel down in one go, until he felt the brush of hair against his nose, and the blunt bump and taste of bitter salt at the back of his throat. Castiel groaned loudly but his eyes stayed closed. Castiel was a determined bastard and his self-control was formidable, but Dean was determined to break through it. So he set to work, sucking and swallowing around Castiel. He dragged his tongue in mad patterns across the underside of Castiel’s cock, in the way Dean knew he loved. He was intent on drawing more and more sounds from the man tied above him, until they were making a disgusting little chorus together; it was wet and obscene, and far more beautiful than anything else Dean had heard that night.

He moved his hands from Castiel’s hips, pushing back to knead and stroke at the curve of Castiel’s ass. Dean’s knuckles grazed against the bed post as Castiel started to rock his hips back and forth, in careful shallow movements. There was a dull thump and Dean glanced up. Castiel’s head was thrown back against the pillar of wood behind him, his throat exposed and vibrating with sound.

Castiel’s thighs were pressed hard against Dean’s shoulders as he continued his laving, sucking, swallowing, ceaseless assault, and he felt it when Castiel started to tremble. It was slight at first, a sporadic tremor, but it increased under Dean’s relentless ministrations. He started to pull away, not wanting it to end too soon but Castiel had other ideas. He twisted and draped a leg over Dean’s shoulder, using it to hold him in place, while Castiel fucked his mouth with a deceptively delicate undulation of his hips.  

“Dean,” Castiel murmured, “Dean, Dean,” over and over again, until the letters of his name filled the air around them.

Castiel repeated it as if it was the only word he knew, a litany thick with longing and lust, and more meaningful than such a little word had any right to be.

Castiel’s thighs tensed hard and the push of his hips became erratic. Dean knew Castiel was running headlong towards the precipice, but this was Dean’s game. He pulled away, pressed hard at the base of Castiel’s cock, and dragged him brutally back and away from the edge. Dean’s lips twisted into a wicked smile when he heard an anguished noise escape Castiel’s throat.

Dean rose slowly from the floor, keeping his body in contact with Castiel’s, his skin slipping sinuously in the sheen of sweat that covered Castiel’s body. He sought Castiel’s mouth and dropped biting kisses onto it, drawing blood then spreading the metallic tang of it to both their mouths, as their tongues tangled together. Dean rolled his hips, dragging the sensitive head of Castiel’s cock against the rough weave of the trousers his still wore. Castiel gasped and Dean had no idea whether it was from pleasure or pain.

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, as he strained to keep them closed like Dean had asked. His Adam’s apple jumped hectically in his throat as Castiel swallowed around moans, and then gave up trying to stop them, and let his mouth hang open instead. The dark pink of Castiel’s tongue was just visible inside and Dean could not resist the temptation of it, the lure of that dark sweet place, it was intoxicating and he would never get his fill of it. He pressed his mouth over Castiel’s, delighting in the twists and turns as their tongues danced together in the dark.

Dean lifted one hand to tangle in Castiel’s hair, pulling back to get a look at his face. The red Castiel’s cheeks and throat was an echo of the bindings at his wrists. His lips swollen and wet and he panted and trembled. A slow drugged looking smile played at the very corner of his mouth. For all Castiel’s stories of angelhood, at that moment he looked like the perfect personification of sin.

“Look at me,” Dean said.

Castiel languorously opened his eyes and Dean’s breath stuck in his throat as the stormy oceans of the world came back into view. Dean was lost. He was going to drown. He was going to lose himself in that storm boiled sea. He would go willingly, and smile as he threw himself into its open arms.

He took a steadying breath and pressed his fingers to Castiel’s mouth.

“Suck,” he instructed, and Castiel closed his lips around them with a contented hum.

He was thorough and diligent in his work, and spit spilled from Castiel’s mouth to run down over Dean’s palm. The sight alone made Dean’s cock ache. He pushed his spit covered hand back between Castiel’s and the bedpost, and followed the curve of his ass down, to where Dean wanted to be. His cock stirred and begged to be released as he started to stroke and tease the muscle at Castiel’s entrance, dipping in one finger, then another, vigilant to the signs of Castiel’s readiness. Dean read it, not only in the “yes Dean, yes,” that tumbled from his mouth but from the needy, almost desperate, look that ghosted across his face.

Dean’s cock throbbed hard, as he shoved his trousers out of the way, and slid it along Castiel’s inner thigh. But the ache continued, unsatisfied with the drag of skin alone and jealous of the pressure around his heat soaked fingers. He spat in his hand and reached down to make quick work of wetting his cock with spit and the liquid that oozed out from the slit.

Dean was almost breathless with anticipation, as he grasped Castiel’s thighs and pulled them apart and up, stepping into that enticing vee and taking Castiel’s weight onto his arms for a moment as Castiel instinctively lifted his legs and wrapped them around Dean’s waist, his fingers scrabbled to get a grip around the bedpost, which gave an alarming creak of protest in response. Castiel was heavy and Dean’s arms shook with the effort of holding him up, until Castiel leaned back to rest his shoulders against bed frame.

“You ready?” Dean asked, his cock already two steps ahead of him, pushing up against Castiel’s ass with a singular determination.

A small groan and a nod of Castiel’s head was apparently the only response he was going to get. It was good enough. Dean pushed in slowly, pulling Castiel towards him as he slid into smooth heat, digging his fingers into the meat of Castiel’s backside. He tracked the flicker of pain across Castiel’s face. A small line that furrowed Castiel’s forehead deepened before smoothing out again, in time to a heavy exhale.

Pleasure fired in every part of Dean’s body, sparking and travelling from nerve to nerve like a trail of gunpowder, hissing and spitting flame in combustive little bursts. One hand moved lower, seeking out the place where they were joined. The silken stretch of Castiel’s muscle around Dean’s rock hard cock, and the rough drag of fabric where his trousers pressed against Castiel’s ass, combined into a strange and heady sensation. Dean wondered for a moment what it must feel like for Castiel, with the scratch of material and cold bone buttons shoved up against his naked ass as Dean rocked up and filled him, burying himself as far inside as he could.

Judging by Castiel’s reaction, it was pretty fucking good; he made an incoherent noise, part groan part growl and at least half a suppressed curse, and his head smacked loudly against the bed post as he locked his thighs around Dean and tried push Dean even deeper. It was no doubt quite unconsciously done, but it was a display worthy of the best whore in the country, licentious to the point of obscenity, and Dean couldn’t help staring, open mouthed and a little stunned, as Castiel writhed and moaned.

“Come on Dean,” Castiel snapped, “move.”

Dean was in no mood to argue about who was supposed to be in charge, he did as the impatient bastard told him. He rocked his hips back a little then thrust back up in one firm stroke, gravity and Castiel’s weight helped to bury Dean inside, hard and fast. It felt fucking amazing, and Dean heard his own repeated gasps of “Oh god,” and “fuck,” and “Cas,” layered over the melody of nonsensical and increasingly loud noises escaping Castiel’s throat, and the incriminating rhythmical creak of the bed.

Castiel’s legs tightened around Dean’s waist, heels kicking against the back of Dean’s thighs as they moved together, locked into a sinful embrace. Castiel was doing almost all the work himself, straining the thick ropes of muscle in his legs as he fucked himself on Dean’s cock. It was all Dean could do to wrap his arms around Castiel and hold on for dear life.

Pleasure was building, growing like a tidal wave ready to break over them both. Dean had wanted it to last longer, but Castiel was unrelenting as he dragged them both forwards to the edge.

“Dean,” Castiel said his voice low and urgent. “Touch me.”

Dean managed a garbled reply of “yes,” or something similar, and fumbled a hand down to circle Castiel’s cock. It was hard as steel in his hand, flushed purple at the head and leaking. Dean stroked in time to the motion of his hips and the rapid tense and release of Castiel’s thighs as he shifted up and down.

“Come for me Cas,” Dean growled out, speeding up the movement of his fist. “Let me see you.”

With that Castiel’s control finally started to crumble. His movements became erratic, the muscles across his abdomen seemed to spasm and contract and he shouted Dean’s name one more time as he came. Castiel sucked in a rattling breath then bit down into his lip, stopping up any further shouts or curses that might otherwise have wriggled loose, as he painted their bodies with thick white lines. Dean felt Castiel’s orgasm from the inside out, and the sensation of muscle clutching and fluttering around his cock, plunged Dean straight into blinding white bliss a few moments later.

For a while all Dean could do was stand there and gasp for breath. He wanted Castiel’s mouth, or to press his face to Castiel’s neck and taste the brine of sweat that trickled there and made his hair dark and damp, but the angle was all wrong and Dean couldn’t reach him. His legs were starting to shake and his arms ached, but for a moment he couldn’t move, he could barely even think. It was a mercy that he didn’t need to.

“Untie me,” Castiel said, breaking through the oddly tense atmosphere.

Dean lifted his head to find Castiel. There was a fierce intensity in his eyes that finally spurred Dean on to move, he lowered Castiel to the floor and reached up to release him from his scarlet bonds. Dean moved faster than his body was completely comfortable with and he winced at the ache in his limbs. Castiel’s arms fell free and Dean thought they must sore from being raised for so long, there were red marks around his wrists where the skin had chafed, but Castiel showed no sign of discomfort otherwise. As soon as he could he wrapped his arms around Dean, spun them both around, and tumbled them together onto the neglected bed, landing in a messy pile of limbs and sweaty skin.

It all happened so quickly it made Dean’s head spin. He closed his eyes against the slow lurch of the room, and opened his mouth, connecting with Castiel in a warm slip and slide of lips and tongue. Castiel rolled them until Dean was under him, and pressed him down into the soft covers of the bed, quickly divesting him of the last of his clothes.

His hands roamed restless over Dean’s body, his fingers taking in all the sensations they had previously been denied, tripping over curves, and smoothing down slopes, tangling in hair, scratching over sweat damp skin, and sinking into giving flesh. It wasn’t hurried but it was thorough; a slow exploration with no ulterior motive or intent. And it was needed. More necessary than Dean had imagined, for both of them. The game had been fun but he had missed Castiel’s hands, his touch so distinctive and deliberate, without hesitancy but always with care.

“Perhaps next time you could tie me up?” Dean suggested once Castiel hands had stopped their wandering quest.

“I’d like that,” Castiel murmured. Too busy mapping the slope of Dean’s shoulder with his tongue to say much more.

A few minutes passed in silence, save for the beat of Dean’s heart and the shushing sound of cotton sheets slipping over skin, as Castiel pulled covers over them. He tucked in close to Dean’s side, a solid presence, warm, real, and reassuring. Dean could not help but wrap an arm around Castiel’s waist, to reel him in closer still.

Castiel frowned. It was only a small crease between his brows but Dean didn’t like to see it there.

“What is it Cas?” Dean asked, concern wrinkling his own forehead, mirroring Castiel’s.

“Dean I miss the Hall,” Castiel replied. His voice was quiet like he was unsure how Dean might react. “I think we should go back for a while. You could check on the progress of the repairs.”

Dean hummed a noncommittal noise. “We could do that,” he said.

He felt relief, and a burst of excitement at the prospect, but it was tempered with caution. Dean didn’t want Castiel to do things just to make him happy. Castiel already gave him enough.

“It’ll be warm soon,” Castiel continued, “and the moors will just now be coming back to life, I’d like to see it again. Maybe we could walk up to the standing stones? There was something nice about that place, calming, like all the work and all the faith that must have gone into putting the stones there has sunk into the ground around it. I never did get the chance to go back again, what with... everything that happened.”

Castiel smiled ruefully. They hadn’t talked much about the past, only the bare bones of what was necessary, and Dean preferred to leave those ghosts buried in the ground, now that they slept peacefully. He pressed his lips to Castiel’s in a lingering kiss, shook off his gloomy thoughts, and replaced them with a bright new idea, or in fact, an old idea, but one given new brilliance in the light of possibility. Dean had long dreamed of getting Castiel messed up and dirty among those ancient stones, and the thought, which once had been an exquisite kind of torture, now seemed not only possible but highly likely.

“We could just visit for a few weeks.” Castiel continued to present his case in serious tones. “I know Bobby wanted to speak to you in person, I don’t think he trusts the post office not to open his letters.” He stopped and took a breath. “You know that’s why I like this room so much Dean. It reminds me of Blackthorn Hall, and of you, where I know you best.”

Dean smiled into Castiel’s hair. It was a poor attempt to disguise a happiness he wasn’t quite ready to accept at face value.

“But won’t you miss London?” he asked. “Won’t you miss your fancy new home, and all your clever new friends that try to marry you off to their daughters?”

“This is my house Dean, not my home,” Castiel replied with a shake of his head and his typical brevity of words. Dean returned Castiel’s slightly perplexed look with one of his own. “My home is with you,” Castiel explained. He cupped the side of Dean’s face and spoke the next words in a whisper against his lips. “I want to be where ever you are, and I always will. Do you still doubt that?”

Dean shook his head and swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “You know, I think you’re probably right Cas, we should go and check on things at Blackthorn, who knows what a pigs-ear Bobby might be making of the place.” He pushed his fingers through Castiel’s dark curls and kissed him, harder and more thoroughly than was really necessary, to seal the bargain. “Let’s go home.”

 


End file.
